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We are constantly being bombarded with anti-aging propaganda and the products to go along with it. There are anti-aging body lotions, anti-aging brain games…there’s even anti-aging shampoo. Shampoo? Unless we’re talking about growing gray, I can’t really grasp the concept of old hair. How old could a head of hair possibly be anyway? If we’re striving for baby fine, let me remind you: babies are not known for their fabulous locks.

Fabulous baby hair

In general, I have a problem with the phrase “anti-aging.” It sounds so negative, as if aging were a bad thing. I prefer to say “youthing.” Doesn’t that sound better? But none of it really matters because the fact is…and you may want to sit down for this…we are all getting older.

This week, I celebrate another birthday. I’d be lying if I said I’m unfazed. The truth is, it’s the first time my number has gotten a little under my skin…my youthing cream-slathered skin.

It doesn’t make any sense because I’ve never felt better (pretty much). Yes, there was a time when I’d go for a run, followed by a nice long swim. Now, I don’t see that happening unless a mugger chases me off the side of a cruise ship. Skipping? I used to skip down stairs, up stairs, everywhere. I can still skip, but I don’t look quite as comely doing it as I did when I was 7, so I refrain. Ok, so everything isn’t exactly what it used to be. Hell, everything’s not even where it used to be. But I’m doing great (all things considered).

Thus far, I’ve held my ground and not taken the bait to youthenize myself. I have no Botox or fillers in my face; nothing has been lifted, or nipped or tucked. I color my hair, but for the record, I’m barely gray. Rather, I have a distinct Bride of Frankenstein streak. It doesn’t look any better on me than hers did on her, so who needs it? My only minor lapse was treating myself to eyelash enhancers. I loved them until my husband said they weren’t “age appropriate.” Ouch! It’s one thing to see yourself as getting older; it’s another to have your loved ones see it…and say it out loud.

When women had little more than cosmetics and hair dye in their youthing arsenal, I think they looked better. At the very least, they looked like themselves. These days, when I glance around at women my age, I often see only parts of faces, rather than the whole picture – overblown lips, sculptured noses, and foreheads smooth enough to skate upon. Everyone is beginning to look weirdly alike. And women aren’t the only culprits. Remember how handsome Mickey Rourke and Bruce Jenner used to be?

Nicole Kidman

Meg Ryan

Audrey Hepburn once said, “The beauty of a woman, with passing years, only grows.” Photos of her, taken later in life, show she was right. It is encouraging to see other famous woman (and men: think Denzel Washington and George Clooney) following this philosophy by forgoing the surgeon’s blade. When you start out looking like Audrey, you’re already way ahead of the game. Messing up that masterpiece would be like giving the Mona Lisa a brow lift (if she had eyebrows, of course).

Emma Thompson

Annette Bening

Audrey Hepburn

Now, I’m no Audrey Hepburn, but I’m still afraid to tinker with what I’ve got. Does this mean I’m throwing in the towel? No way. I still exercise, play tennis, dance, get gussied up, and coat myself in sunscreen every single day. I try to eat right (the occasional cocktail and dessert notwithstanding) and get plenty of rest because a good night’s sleep is a better friend than diamonds. Will I ever get a tweak, or have something done? I’m not sure. I’ve considered it, and I just might go in for a little tune-up somewhere down the road. But for now, I’m holding off.

So, until then, let it come. Let the laugh lines show that I’ve laughed until I’ve cried. Let the speckles and spots remind me that I had my day in the sun.

I admit it – I am aging. Accepting that is the gift I’m giving to myself this year. Happy birthday to me.

New parents can be pretty amusing as they rattle off all the things they will never do with their children. Some declarations are honorable: I’ll never serve fast food to my kids! Some are sensible but unrealistic: I’ll never let them stay up past ten o’clock on a school night! Some are control-freaky and horrible: Unless they get straight A’s in high school, I won’t help pay for college! And then there’s my personal favorite, the sweet: I will never lie to my kids!

Inside, I chuckle. After all, how cute that they have such high ideals. It’s like a four-year-old announcing she’ll invent a time machine when she grows up. You wouldn’t tell her that time travel isn’t possible because why disabuse someone of a lofty goal? Also, who knows? If a kindergartener, back in 1960, told you that you’d be reading this on an all-purpose electronic device that also makes visual phone calls, sends mail, plays movies, and puts all the world’s knowledge at your fingertips, you might have dismissed him with, “That’s very nice, Stevie. Now go clean your room.” But he would have been right.

So, I just smile when I hear these assertions that they won’t lie to their kids, because I know that this is actually the very first lie of many, and these parents are telling it to themselves. For example, somebody bought all those Elf On The Shelf toys last December. What’s that you say? You don’t consider that lying? It’s just a playful fib? Oh. I see.

I’m not judging you. Oh no, no, no! I just want to give you a teensy little reality check. And I don’t mean to be a spoilsport. The truth is, I don’t see anything wrong with traditions that lead children to imaginative play, like believing in magical candy-bearing bunnies, or fairies bartering cash for teeth. In fact, I love them. And I concede that there’s certainly a distinction between a fib: Keep making that face and it will freeze that way, a white lie: The supermarket was completely out of ice cream, and a downright whopper: Your real father is an exiled prince. For his own safety, and ours, I can’t tell you who he is.

Then there are lies of convenience. These are the lies we tell to save us time, aggravation, or to avoid an awkward conversation for which we are unprepared. I knew a mother who, when asked the purpose of a certain feminine hygiene product, told her prepubescent daughter that they were shoe inserts used to prevent sore feet. Then there was the father who gave such a cursory explanation about the birds and the bees, that his 8-year-old son asked, “Next time mommy lays an egg, can I see it?”

It was one of these convenience lies that sent me on a wild goose chase for nearly 25 years. Here’s how my odyssey began:

Could you fib to this little face?

When I was a little girl, I wasn’t a terribly fussy eater as long as everything you served me was turkey. Turkey was my favorite and the only “meat” I’d eat. No matter where my parents took me, turkey was on the menu (or so they said. I couldn’t read.).

Once, on a visit to New York City’s Chinatown, we stopped at a restaurant for lunch and my parents ordered for me. When the food came, I was served a warm, bready, fluffy orb, flat on the bottom, and about the size of a softball. It was golden brown in color with a delicate sheen to its crust.

“What’s this?” I asked my father.

“Turkey,” he said.

I bit into its soft, chewy exterior to discover the most delicious, sweet, moist turkey I had ever tasted.

Thus began my quest for the elusive Chinese Turkey Roll.

When I became old enough to read, I searched the menu of every Chinese restaurant for turkey rolls. I never found them. As an adult, I’d ask waiters, “Do you have those rolls? You know the ones I mean – they’re soft and kind of shiny? They have turkey in a sweet sauce inside?”

Waiter: “You mean pork bun.”

Me: “Um, no…not pork. Turkey.”

Waiter: “No. No turkey. Pork!”

This is how it went every time. They didn’t have what I wanted, so they’d try to sell me on pork buns. Even though I’d never had one, I knew pork buns weren’t what I craved. Give me Chinese turkey rolls or nothing.

I once asked my father if these rolls were some sort of delicacy, or if the restaurant in Chinatown made them as a specialty, or if he remembered the name of the place.

“You want to ask me what we ate for lunch 15 years ago? I don’t remember what I ate for breakfast today,” was his response.

Fast forward to 1986. I was working as a research director on Wall Street and living on my own in Brooklyn. My downstairs neighbor, Olivia, called me one night to invite me for dinner. When I arrived, a deliciously pungent aroma welcomed me at the door.

Olivia greeted me with a hug, “You’re in for a treat! I was in Chinatown today and picked up lots of goodies.”

After brewing a nice pot of oolong for us, she served our first course: scallion pancakes. I’d never had them before, but my taste buds had come a long way since I was little. Now I tried new foods all the time (however, turkey was still my favorite).

The pancakes were crispy on the outside, tender on the inside and had a sweet oniony flavor. We dipped them in a dark sauce that was salty like soy, but slightly sweet and tangy. Yum!

Then Olivia brought a platter to the table. It was piled high with, what looked like, smaller versions of my gastronomic Holy Grail. But I’d been disappointed before, so I checked my excitement until that first bite. Gently lifting one to my mouth, and hoping against hope, I took a tentative nibble. And then I heard the voices of a cherubim’s chorus.

“Olivia! You have to give me the name of the place where you bought these turkey rolls!”

She tilted her head and gave me a quizzical look, “Turkey rolls? Those are pork buns. You can get them anywhere.”

Anywhere?

My ecstasy was tempered by the knowledge that my father’s fiction had deprived me of over two decades’ worth of pork buns. Add to that the embarrassment I felt replaying all the times I’d grilled restaurant employees about those non-existent rolls (sometimes I did this on dates!). It’s like going into Home Depot and demanding a flying carpet because you just know they really exist. And when the salesman tells you there are no such things, you think he’s stupid and he thinks you’re crazy.

So parents, next time you tell that little white lie, please don’t forget to straighten things out somewhere down the road. Yes, my father fibbed about the turkey. Was that the end of the world? No. Did he inadvertently spare me from years of eating something that, let’s face it, would not have made for the healthiest of diets? Yes. And in the grand scheme of things, there are worse outcomes born from parental subterfuge. I could have been that bride walking down the aisle with panty liners stuffed into her shoes.

I’m going to do some things in today’s post that I’ve never done in this blog before. For starters, I’m going to tell you what really gets my motor going. I’m going to get specific. And I’m going to name names. Brace.

Women often have to think outside the box to spice things up at home. Well, I’m no different. There was something I’d been fantasizing about, craving, and wanting for some time…to bring a pro into our lives. When I finally got up the nerve to tell my husband, he blanched a little, but ultimately climbed on board and agreed to satisfy my longing. Of course, I’m referring to the Vitamix Professional Series 750, which I asked Hubby to give me for Christmas. He balked because it’s a pricey piece of equipment, but you get what you pay for (and, trust me, I am getting my money’s worth). If you’ve never seen one, well…it’s really sort of a blender, but to call it that diminishes its fabulousness, as far as I’m concerned.

For the record, I’m not hawking this thing or getting paid to mention it. It’s just that I’m in the mood…to share.

Diamonds, exotic vacations, and fancy cars make some women swoon. Me? I go bonkers for scullery gadgets. I like the aforementioned fine things, too, but gift me with something shiny that plugs into the kitchen, and I get that certain kind of feeling all over. You would be hard-pressed to come up with a culinary accessory that I don’t own. I have juicers, stand mixers, pasta machines, espresso makers…all of it. Oh, and just in case you’re getting ideas, please be advised: I do not share, lend, or otherwise allow the touching of my wares. So don’t even ask me.

Anywho, before I enter into any committed relationship, I do my research. I had been lusting after a Vitamix for several years, but since it runs about $700, I really had to want it and want it bad. What first attracted me was its ability to make things hot (like soup) and cold (like frozen desserts). How is this even possible? As part of my investigation, I visited Sur La Table and started poking around. When approached by the store’s manager, I began pumping him about the Vitamix Pro 750.

“Rather than tell you,” he purred, “Why don’t I show you?”

Uh-oh! He planned to tantalize me with a demonstration. Before he even started, I knew I’d be powerless against his seduction.

He produced a stalk of celery, snapped it in half and put it in the container. Then he whipped out the biggest carrot I’d ever seen in my life. He cut it into three pieces (just three!!) and placed them with the celery, then added about half a cup of apple juice. Flipping a switch, the contents were reduced to a liquid within seconds. I actually, audibly gasped. Then, just to drive the point home, he let it run a little longer. The contents became hot and steamy. He gave me a taste. It was like a soup my husband loves – a soup that normally takes over an hour to make. I began daydreaming of all the things I wanted to do with that machine. My reverie was interrupted when I realized a crowd had formed. Strangers were watching. I felt my cheeks get hot and flushed.

Already fully enrapt, I nearly collapsed when he showed me how to clean it. He filled it half-way with warm water and added two drops of dish soap. Running the pre-programmed cleaning cycle, which takes just one minute, it was sparkling (needing only to have the suds rinsed out). No dismantling. No screwing and unscrewing. Heaven help me, I was a goner.

Since receiving this magnificent piece of machinery, I have used it every single day. My All-Clad 7-Qt. Deluxe Slow Cooker is starting to get jealous, but I don’t care. I’m in love.

Now, I’m going to do the second thing I’ve never done in this blog: I’m going to give you a recipe. It’s for my Carrot-Orange Soup, based on a recipe from the original Silver Palate Cookbook. The ingredients are basically the same, but the proportions and method are mine. Here goes…

Anita’s Pro 750 Carrot-Orange Soup

1 tablespoon of butter

1 tablespoon of olive oil

1 large Vidalia onion, peeled and cut in half

4 gigantic carrots, peeled and cut into thirds

2 cups chicken or vegetable stock (divided)

1 medium orange

1 cup orange juice

Salt and pepper to taste

Options:

½ cup toasted papitas (hulled pumpkin seeds)

fresh orange zest

2 teaspoons mild curry powder

1” chunk of fresh ginger (peeled)

Method:

In a large saucepan, heat the oil and butter over medium heat. While waiting for the butter to melt, place half the stock, onion and carrots into the Vitamix Pro 750 (if you’re using ginger, throw that in there, too). Turn the dial to “1” and pulse about 5 times to pulverize the onions and carrots (some chunks might remain. That’s OK). Add the carrot/onion blend to the oil/butter mixture (if using curry, stir it in now). Squeeze in the juice of the orange. Cook over medium heat for about 5 minutes. Pour the whole kit and caboodle back into the Vitamix, add remaining stock, and run the pre-programmed “soup” function. When the machine stops running, stir in the orange juice by hand and divide into serving bowls. Garnish with the orange zest and papitas. I like to serve it with Glutino gluten-free Cheddar crackers. Makes 4 servings. If you don’t have a Vitamix Professional Series 750, you’ll just have to get one, ‘cuz you can’t borrow mine.